


Psychosis Neurosis

by OpenEyes



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Real News RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, American History, Experiment, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LSD, M/M, Mental Institutions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychosis, Stanford University, extensively researched, lysergic acid diethylamide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEyes/pseuds/OpenEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Short Chapters)</p><p>August 14–20, 1971</p><p>Professor Philip Zimbardo organized twenty-four male students to take on randomly assigned roles of prisoners and guards in a mock prison situated in the basement of the Stanford psychology building. And within days, the guards enforced authoritarian measures and ultimately subjected some of the prisoners to psychological torture. Many of the prisoners passively accepted psychological abuse and, at the request of the guards, readily harassed other prisoners who attempted to prevent it. The experiment even affected Zimbardo himself, who, in his role as the superintendent, permitted the abuse to continue. </p><p>Originally set to last for 2 weeks, it was terminated after only six days due to the actions of the participants spiraling out of control. But what if it hadn't been stopped? What if the abuse was allowed to continue until the end of the experiment?</p><p>This is the story of fallout for one man and the psychologist who is assigned is case...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M to be safe...
> 
> I wrote this short fic for a class a few years back, but lately I've been thinking about moving the focus away from these characters but using their story as a springboard for a larger look at what society might be like if scientific studies with human participants hadn't been subject to massive reforms in the wake of experiments like this one, the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment (really horrible) and the 1961 Milgram experiment, to name a few.
> 
> Some artistic liberties have been taken in the vein of this being an alternate history story and with how mental illnesses where treated in the 1970s, but comments and con-crit are deeply appreciated to see if there's any interest in a larger narrative arc.
> 
> First fic I'm posting online too, so really please! Comments welcome! :)

Micael, aka Prisoner #626, stands with his back against the wall, eyes darting from corner to corner, watching everything, for anything. He’s not sure. The drone of the air conditioner makes his muscles twitch; it covers up the tap of footsteps in the corridor. He knows they stopped at his door. Why? Then, the air kicked on. Where were they now?

His eyes are burning, but he doesn’t want to blink. If he blinks, he might get tired. Can’t sleep. Must never sleep, he thinks, refusing to look at the hospital bed in the corner. Sleeping is weak. They are always worse when they catch you sleeping, even if they ordered you to sleep. John Wayne only comes at night. Haven’t seen him in a while. He’ll probably be back again soon. Maybe it’s John Wayne in the corridor, waiting, watching for the lights to go out.

There is a TV here and a bathroom. A bathroom right in the room. Everything is silent, and moonlight kisses the floor. But he knows better. There may be no bars on his cell anymore, no bucket in the corner, but he’s still in prison. He can still smell the urine, feces and sweat they were forced to live in. _His head itches with the anxiety welded to his scalp. He’s a bad prisoner, not a snitch._

_They won’t let him shower._

_“Go on, give him a kiss,” John Wayne sneers. See, he knew he would be back. 626 and the other prisoner glance at each other in despair. They know they have to do it. They have no choice, helpless, completely dependent on John Wayne, like armless, legless animals exposed in the wild. Survival. John Wayne raises his billy club and strikes 626 across the head. Warmth trickles into the frosted perspiration on his skull. “Fucking piece of shit. Do what I say! Give him a kiss.”_

_The chains around their ankles clink as they start their slow shuffle towards each other, publicly announcing the last crumbling shell of their humanity shattering into grains of dust, draining onto the dirt floor. The other prisoners watch, glowing rodent-like eyes, another secret to hoard in the shadows._

_“You call that a kiss?” They look at John Wayne. “Try again.” He judges them, shaking his head. “Pansy-ass motherfuckers, do you kiss your mothers like that? Try again.”_ _Again and again. The hours pass._

_Disappointed that it has taken so long to kiss to his satisfaction, John Wayne lays across them while they do push-ups He listens to the monotone chant of their prison numbers. Finally, he sends them back to their cell for an hour or two of sleep and he and the other guards play with different prisoners for the rest of their shift. But 626 knows it’s only a matter of time before he is called again._


	2. Chapter 2

In the corridor, Dr. Lavkosyski tilts his head back, listening to the air bubbles bursting in the stiff cartilage of his neck, rubbing his eyes in frustration. He finally walks away from the small observation panel in Micael’s door. It’s been months and the once emaciated, barely animate skeleton that had been carted into his care, doped and bound, had risen to a healthy weight. But, well, let’s face it. That’s the _only_ progress in this stupid case. 

A page trumpets over the PA system, “Dr. Lavkosyski, you have a call on Line 8. Dr. Lavkosyski, Line 8.” 

The doctor keeps walking. He refuses to talk to Micael’s mother again, refuses to keep a bleeding wound raw. Hippocratic oath and all that. Every day she calls, hoping that her little boy will be back to normal, the happy go-lucky, pot smoking, free-loving hippie that he was before the summer of 1971. Lady, I don’t think your son will ever be “normal” again, but maybe, hopefully, one day he’ll be _functional_ again, he wants to tell her. 

And who the fuck called her to tell her about this little episode? He grinds his teeth. It only happens at least once a week, and he would be the one on call every time people get antsy that his patient’s having a psychotic break. Well, a more intense one. His mother doesn’t need to be worked up every time it happens either.

He rams the door into the cafeteria, pouring himself a cup of cold, black coffee with shimmers of grease floating on the top and walks over to a table. His stomach rips an internal belch. It’s after four in the morning and I can’t even get a donut. Fucking cafeteria should be open all night for shit like this, he rants to himself. Leaning back in his chair, he reads:

      Patient Name: Micael Arlnardo                                          Case #: 51027459

                  Age: 22                                            Born: November 7, 1949, Palo Alto, CA.

      Medical History: Surgery- screws placed in right wrist. Broken, falling out of a tree.  

                                1958. No family history of psychological illness.

      Reason for admittance: Socially withdrawn. Suffering from hyper-vigilance, insomnia,

                                   severe depression, malnutrition, delusions, possible hallucinations,

                                   likely suicidal.

      Additional Information: Patient was a participant in the two-week Zimbardo

                                  experiment at Stanford University as a prisoner. The experiment is

                                  still under investigation. Possible trauma suffered still unknown.  

                                  Believes he has no name. Will only respond to “Prisoner 626.”

Lavkosyski sighs, adds his latest notes about getting called again tonight, and fingers a picture of Micael he had added to the file. It is a old picture, a young boy’s face smeared with mud like a painted Two-Face mask as he swings half-naked, grinning and waving at his camera-crazy parent from a tree branch. It’s just one of many Micael’s mother floods his office with everyday.

Lavkosyski wishes he could see that boy in his patient’s eyes instead of deadened blankness. He begins reading the file again, looking for the key to his patient’s neurological riddle, for a way to bring the smiling boy back home.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens a few days after the first 2 chapters and it's really the last time we see Micael. Had to stay under the assignment word limit...and it was hard to do much with Micael's frame of mind...

Micael and Lavkosyski stare at each other. Calm clashes with neurotic. It’s time for their daily, individual therapy session in a pastel yellow room that always reminds Lavkosyski of cheese, some kind of Swiss cheese that went rancid, forgotten in the back of the fridge. It even has a sharp mildew smell. He forces himself not to open a window. A breeze of falling leaves would be welcome.

Micael knows the window is there. Of course, he knows. It’s bigger than the one in his room, just wide enough for him to slip out if he’s willing to get a few scrapes along the way. He thinks of getting busted with billy clubs and shudders. A few scrapes? No problem. But wait, wait, wait. Focus. Watch the “doctor.” Have to play the game. Can’t escape if they think you are planning to escape. Go along with it. Have to play the game.

 “What is your name?” Lavkosyski decides they would try to start with the basics today.

“I don’t have a name.” The young man’s eyes are wide. Pinprick pupils absorb the light, recording the doctor’s every suggestion of movement. He quivers with silent, panting breaths. “I am Prisoner 626.”

“Your name isn’t Micael?”

“I am Prisoner 626.” He knows this game. He knows the answers he has to give.

“What did you do to be sent to prison then, 626?”

“...I don’t know.” He has never known. Does it matter? He is bad. 

“Maybe because it wasn’t really prison? It was all just pretend, an experiment you volunteered for so you could make some money over the summer.” Lavkosyski tries to keep his voice soft and calm, patiently explaining for what seemed like the millionth time. “Remember?” Micael flinches anyway, trembling with tension.

“Fine.” Irritation lances Lavkosyski. “I’m tired of talking. What would you like to try to talk about today?”

Micael’s answer is silence. There’s no talking allowed. It was just another game. A more cruel one.

Lavkosyski takes a deep breath. “Well, since neither of us really feels up to talking, how about we look at some pictures?” He pulls out a small, red photo album and opens it to the first page. A dark haired young man is blowing out the candles on a cake, still wearing his cap and gown from high school graduation. The green and white ribbons proclaim his academic honors and his father is gathering up the congratulatory cigars. A mother is using a handkerchief to wipe her face, probably wiping telltale tears away. “Look, Micael, look how happy you were. Don’t you remember? Your mother calls everyday asking for you. She misses you. Don’t you want to go home?”

Micael’s eyes grow distant. He does want to go home, but _the parole panel has just filed back into the room and Micael stares behind their heads, praying silently. “Let me go home. Please, God. I’m sorry for whatever I did. Just let me go home.” He can hear his parents whispering on a bench behind him. Save me, he thinks at them because he can’t risk speaking. It’s not visiting hours and he must be a good prisoner. But can’t they see how he’s been punished enough?_

_The five panel authorities stare back at him, cold and flat. His sweat collects in his palms and glues his shirt to his bony, protruding spine. He opens his mouth to beg for mercy again, but only a faint puff is expelled. He savors the feeling of pants on his legs, warming him for the first time in he doesn’t even know how long, and the sensation of not having lice and nits crawling, biting his scalp. The parole board simply says, “Denied,” and never seem to register his presence, “Next.” 626’s world narrows to a flat, white spot in the darkness._

“Next.” Dr. Lavkosyski turns the page. A three-year-old boy is running around with his hands thrown in the air and nothing but his diaper on. His harried mother in a flower print dress is yelling and chasing him, but her eyes seem to reflect the sparkle in his. “Doesn’t seem like you ever want to wear pants, Micael. Even when you were little. Now why is that?” Lavkosyski chuckles softly.

Micael begins to mutter and rock back and forth. “626. I am Prisoner 626. Prisoner 626, sir. Prisoner 626...”

_They strip him, force him to look at himself naked in the mirror and laugh. They point with their billy clubs and talk about how pathetic he looks, so thin, so much smaller than they are. They spray him, knocking him to the floor with the fire-hose force of their delousing. Deloused, like a flea-infested dog. They give him a dress, but they call it a smock. “Underwear?” Micael asks, hoping he could have that much, that much dignity left._

_“Underwear is a privilege, not a right. Prisoners have no privileges,” they answer from behind their mirrored sunglasses. One guard leers from the back of the group, 626 is never sure which when they all look the same, khaki and sunglassed. “Now, did we say you could talk?” They put the blindfold back on, chains on his ankles, a bag over his head, and lead him to a cell occupied by two other boys in dresses._

Lavkosyski wants to put his fist through the wall, or better yet, Micael’s skull. As soon as he starts muttering, the therapy session is useless. Micael won’t calm down until he’s alone in his room again, but for a moment, Lavkosyski thought there had been a glimmer of recognition in the boy’s eyes. He glances towards the window and sees the fuchsia-scarlet sky. Probably the just the last flash of sunlight, he rationalizes. He toys with the idea of forcing him into a dormitory and other more drastic measures. Would it reinforce the cell-like, cramped atmosphere of the prison? Or is the single room too much like solitary confinement? 

Lavkosyski recalls walking through Stanford’s little “prison” set-up when he was assigned Micael’s case. Without the results published, he had wanted to see first hand what the boy had been living in. He had seen the dark, damp 2’x2’ closet the experiment had designated “the hole” for solitary confinement, leaving “bad” prisoners in for hours, maybe even days, at a time. He had interviewed some of the guards and other prisoners. While the other prisoners said some terrible things had occurred, the guards denied it. Who had told the truth? Why weren’t the other boys suffering like Micael? 

He can’t see the connection. How does just a couple weeks completely destroy a perfectly happy, healthy and well-adjusted young man? Maybe he’s missing something. Maybe there’s some aspect of the “prison” he overlooked. Too bad they would have torn it apart already. If he could just go back and take another look, maybe the answer would jump out at him.

He watches Micael blindly, considering. Didn’t he just read some paper by a Dr. Timothy Leary in some journal about the possible benefits of lysergic acid diethylamide? Something about possible insight into neurological processes and enhanced memory? What if I were to take it instead of prescribing it?, he wonders. Did he dare? He walks over to the phone and calls the nurse to take Micael back to his room. He’s going to have another long night ahead of him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Lavkosyski stares at the colored pills in his hand.  He places the first orange and green pill on his tongue, fighting not to gag at the powdery taste and lays back in bed, waiting for it to hit. He idly traces the water stains on the ceiling in his crummy, little studio apartment, knowing that he’ll be living here for decades trying to pay Harvard’s student loans back.

Nothing is happening and he’s impatient. He flips another pill into his mouth, tossing it up like it’s popcorn at a movie. It’s easier to swallow this time. The walls begin to gyrate and he disconnects from his body, floating in a between consciousness. He scowls. This is tripping? This  is lysergic acid diethylamide, the LSD everyone and science is so hyped up about? Seriously? What’s the appeal? He smacks his mouth, ringing his teeth and pops the last three pills from the mini-bag he bought on some street corner into his mouth. Maybe he got a bad batch. Or maybe the “dealer” was just out to scam idiots like him.

He thrusts his legs out of bed. Might as well shower and get back to work. Time to think of another way of possibly reaching Micael. This was a dumb idea anyway. Maybe I’m just immune to acid, he thinks. He shrugs. Like it matters. He’ll have to write his own paper on the possible _lack_ of medicinal effects of LSD. Maybe he’ll get an extra payment for his student loans taken care of if it gets published in the _American Medical Journal._

With that happy thought stored for later use, the brown water stains trumpet and he’s on the ceiling. 

The bed asks him, “Why’d you go up there? Seems like a stupid place to be. What happens when Gravity gets back from her lunch break? Hmm? And here I thought doctors were supposed to be the smart ones.”

Lavkosyski gapes. The bed continues, oblivious. Well, it would, Lavkosyski thinks, too calmly for talking with a bed. It is just a bed, after all. Not like it has eyes somewhere. Still, Lavkosyski decides this really isn’t the kind of trip he had in mind and his chest burns where his heart is throwing itself against his sternum. And even though he’s breathing at an accelerated rate, it feels like he’s suffocating. He swims through the air to get to the phone.

He picks it up. The phone clicks over to the operator. 

And the walls explode and collapse.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dr. Hart’s gray hair stands up in all directions and clumps cling to his fingers where he has pulled it out from running his fingers through it over and over. His arms throb from holding the huge, new stack of case files he’s been assigned. He moves from one door observation panel to another, just cursorily examining his new patients. 

“You’d think they’d tell a senior physician a little more about what the hell is going on these days. But, no. Not so much as a by your leave or a word of explanation about why I suddenly have to cover fifteen of Lavkosyski’s cases. Never mind, that other doctors are splitting the rest.” He mutters to himself.

Room 367 cries in a corner. Manic-depressive. 

“And what was the kid thinking? He was going to burn himself out working all of these. It’s insane. Trying to show the rest of us up probably. Looking for an early promotion.” 

Room 485, scraggly hair, blank eyes. Nam veteran. 

“And look, just like I was saying, burnt himself out. Probably took himself on an extended vacation and never gave anyone notice. Or maybe he misdiagnosed a patient and got suspended. That would explain why they won’t tell anyone where he is.” Dr. Hart continues down the corridor, working himself in the vague direction of his office and into a fine fit of irritation at the lack of respect the youth show their elders these days.

“These are bad times indeed.” He stops and looks around. It wouldn’t do for someone to see him acting as crazy as the patients. But when you are around them all day, of course you are going to pick up a few, less bizarre mannerisms, he defends himself. It’s not like there’s anyone sane to talk to most of the time, except yourself. Sort of. He smiles and keeps looking in on the patients.

Room 501 orates to himself. Multiple personality. Routine. Routine. Routine.

Room 829 whimpers in front of the door, “I’m 626. I’m a good prisoner. Let me go home. I’m good. I’m good. I’m Prisoner 626.” The voice jerks tears. Hmm, that one could be interesting. If the file doesn’t say he just took a bad acid trip. Dr. Hart rolls his eyes. Like he could be so lucky. 

He speaks one last thought aloud, trying to calm himself down, feeling slightly more generous towards Lavkosyski. “Or may he caught some kind of bug. Never know what kind of disease these people might bring in with them.” He nods. “They wouldn’t tell us that either. Wouldn’t want to start a panic.” Satisfied with his hypotheses, he peeks unenthusiastically into the last room.

Room 827. 

Hart cringes and backs away. They warned him when they assigned his new case load he was free to reject Case #827203845. He had scoffed and told them to mind their own cases. He didn’t think anything could disturb him. He’s been a psychologist for 40 years, an old hat at his trade, he told them. Don’t worry.

Well, he’s disturbed. 

The creature in the room cowers, waving his hands in front of his face. Covered in scabs where it seems like he tries to dig himself out of his own flesh, spittle dribbles from his slack mouth as he gurgles inarticulate sounds. Intermittently, he screams.

Now, Hart knows why Dr. Lavkosyski is no longer available to his patients. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really loved Dr. Hart's character. Crusty curmudgeon that he is. I might keep him in mind for unrelated fics.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the notes of dark humor it ended on...


End file.
